


Listening

by Semianonymity



Category: Toriko (Anime & Manga)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 00:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semianonymity/pseuds/Semianonymity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Komatsu and Zebra have an argument about names, and the conversation take an unexpected turn.</p><p>Featuring some dominance/submission themes, explicit sex, an interrupted meal, and Komatsu taking charge. Inspired by the Toriko chat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listening

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to [Stariceling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Stariceling/pseuds/Stariceling), [Bluebird](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueBird01/pseuds/BlueBird01), and Renren for their help!

Zebra was being quiet. It was a little strange for him, Komatsu thought, at least for when Zebra was around him, without anyone else. ...He was also loud around the other Kings, at least Toriko and Sunny, but not in the same way. He didn't try to _really_ fight with Komatsu, which had been a relief for a while, early on. But Komatsu had no worries about any of the Kings, not anymore. They were terrifying, all of them, in their own ways, and he had seen Zebra dripping with the blood of monsters he'd eaten raw, possibly still alive, and still been relieved, because Zebra would always protect to him, to his last breath, his last shout.

Komatsu hummed other his breath as he stirred a sauce, careful to keep it flawlessly smooth, adjusting the pan just so on the burner to keep it from getting too hot too fast. When it was reduced to the point where it would flow in silky ribbons, he'd cover the russet potatoes—such a beautiful color, like a yam or sweet potato but much redder, and the taste deep, not at all sweet—in it and move it to the table.

It was a casual meal, which meant that Komatsu gave what he cooked to Zebra as it was finished, not pushing himself to move quickly—although he still pushed himself, really, but because he wanted to, because he wanted to feed Zebra; it wasn't a duty—and Zebra ate what was offered and didn't growl (too often) at Komatsu to hurry up, damn chef!

The sauce was perfect. Komatsu lifted his spoon to watch it drip, but he already knew—it was almost like a sixth sense, his sous chefs told him, but it was really just paying attention! Well, that and food honor—that it was ready. The potatoes were given their layer of creamy sauce, with pinkgreen onions to garnish, the same soft, clear color as rose quartz, and he passed it to Zebra, who grunted. That was a pretty normal response, Komatsu thought, not that that was bad, it was fine! But it sounded more _moody_ than it normally did, which worried him. His first instinct was to push—to ask if the meal was coming too slowly (he could predict that answer: "Of course it is! Don't get cocky thinking you can feed me!") or if he was talking too much (but he'd gotten quieter, too) or if there was anything wrong, just in general. It wasn't that he was afraid of Zebra, of course. Although he did want to keep from accidentally insulting him! But there was something, the sort of instinct that kept him from adding mint to his sea-lamb, instead doing a dry rub with a green curry—his food sense directing him in preparing a special ingredient, even though Zebra wasn't an ingredient at all.

It was the same sort of feeling that made him reach for sea-thyme pollen—perfect tiny little balls coated in salt—instead of his normal salt-fish paste (from the Gourmet Sea, brought back after a trip with Coco) as he started a soup. The thyme flavor would be aromatic, and he reached for neotomato paste, prepared that summer, not for more cream, and he switched to a different fish stock. Cioppino, he decided. Rosemary, crying onions, sunset prawns, tender oceanic fish, pearl mussels. Salty, aromatic, complicated, but still warm and filling.

There was a clank, and Komatsu looked over to see Zebra drop off a load of dishes by the sink, making him smile, automatically, but not because it was by rote—seeing Zebra was always good, _right_ in a way that had become obvious even before his nervousness around the (kind of intimidating!) man had fled—it had a lot to do with how Zebra always brought this warm flush into his chest, like a billows onto coals.

"Thank you!" Komatsu said, pouring soup stock onto his onions and spices in a cloud of billowing, sea-smelling steam, before quickly abandoning his post by the stoves to give Zebra a quick hug, not worrying as much about any potential food smudges on his hands as he would with Sunny or Coco. He tried to ignore how it left his face pressed into the heavy muscle of Zebra's upper thigh, iron-strong and obvious even through the tough fabric of his pants. ...Hugging Zebra head-on would put his head in a very specific location. He was blushing. No doubt his heart beat had sped up, and that meant that Zebra could hear it, of course. Instead, Komatsu cleared his throat and patted above Zebra's knee and went back to cioppino. He had bread in the oven, thankfully, that would be done at just about the right time. And a salad, he thought. Then back to more meat, his meals for Zebra always rich in umami, rich and heavy flavors.

Zebra was still standing there, watching him, so Komatsu turned to smile up at him, explosive arugula (defused, of course) in one hand, asking a question.

"Don't get cocky!" Zebra demanded, sort of automatically, and Komatsu just shook his head.

"Zebra-san," he said, mildly.

"Don't call me that!" Zebra snapped, hands fisting unexpectedly, muscles in his shoulders tightening, danger gathering around him—from helpful dinner guest to wanted criminal, and personal executioner of species so deadly that the average human couldn't imagine them, in just a few quick seconds. Komatsu blinked, confused—Zebra-san was what he was, it was what Komatsu always called him!

"I'm not sure what else to call you," Komatsu said evenly, turning the burner down on the soup, letting it simmer for a while so he could give his full attention to Zebra. It was clearly important to the other man, which meant it was important to Komatsu. There was something going on...

Zebra looked furious, which made Komatsu's stomach clench. He'd just wanted to cook him a meal! He—missed Zebra, who was gone the most, and least likely to enter civilization, out of all the Kings. And also hardest to fit into his sized-for-Komatsu apartment.

Komatsu looked down at his hands, lightly calloused and spotted with little burns, scrapes and cuts up close, brow furrowing, but that just made Zebra _snarl_ at him, like a rabid animal, or an unhealthy engine springing to life. "Z-" Komatsu started, then he stumbled over the words. He hadn't liked him referring to him as Zebra-san! But then he forged onwards, because it was _Zebra_ , and whatever he was doing, Komatsu needed to trust him. And there was nothing wrong with his form of address; Komatsu was always polite. How could he be otherwise, when he respected Zebra—and the others—so much? With everything they did for him, with everything they'd given for him, for everything he'd been able to do for them? Zebra was—was Zebra-san because he was a good person, because Komatsu wanted to recognize that, it wasn't out of, of intimidation, or...

"Zebra-san! Stop it! Just tell me what's going on," Komatsu snapped, pulling his gaze up to meet Zebra's eyes, his arms crossing, his own shoulder squaring. So what if he didn't reach the other man's waist, if he was outweighed multiple times over? This was his kitchen! This was _Zebra_.

"You should call me 'partner' instead!" Zebra bellowed, mouth pulling open wider than any normal human, loud enough to make Komatsu's ears ring—even though Zebra was normally so careful.

It left Komatsu feeling shaky, sucking in a breath. He—he was Toriko's partner. He'd thought that Zebra _understood_. But. It wasn't just partners, not-partners. He could have friends, right? They weren't really friends, the way it was normally meant. It didn't at all explain how Komatsu felt about him, at all, which was—it was like partnership! Not exactly, but—

"I'm Toriko's partner," Komatsu found himself saying, before he could slap a hand over his mouth, stricken. That wasn't what he was trying to say.

Zebra was _shaking_ , physically shaking, Komatsu realized, with the effort to restrain himself, muscles and tendons as taught as strings on an instrument, holding back a tide of rage. He could turn everything in a five-mile radius into dust, if he wanted, hit Komatsu with enough concentrated noise to stop his heart, concussive force enough to burst his brain like a ripe yogurt-peach, and he wouldn't. That surety was still there, underneath the floods of anxiety and _betrayal_ that Komatsu was feeling, despite himself, caught in his throat, making his voice rusty when he tried to speak. It took two tries.

"Zebra-san—it's not that—it's not just Toriko. It's not that—"

"So what? You were leading me on? Pretty damn cocky!" Zebra snapped, his voice at a lower volume but even deeper than his normal growl, resonating. There was a dangerous glint to his eye, and he turned a little, angling his head even further to show the long, dangerous row of his teeth, on either side of his scarred cheek.

"No, damn it!" Komatsu shouted, throwing up his hands in sudden, wounded frustration. He took a step forward, somewhat gratified when Zebra took a step back—not quite cowering, but retreating. "Would you LISTEN to me, I know you can! You probably do too much!" That wasn't fair, he really didn't mind—he liked Zebra listening, it left him safe and warm when he fell asleep when Zebra was in town—but he felt cornered. He needed to bite back. He'd thought that Zebra _understood_ , that Komatsu couldn't really turn him down, that Komatsu could never leave Toriko, that he had a different—that it was all _different_ — "You're not Toriko, it's just not—"

"I'm not a greedy dog for you to chase, you mean," Zebra snapped. "A fucking guard dog that'll jump through your hoops as long as you keep it fed! Fuck, _Komatsu_ , you love having someone there to snatch you out of danger as long as—"

"Don't," Komatsu snapped, louder than he needed to be, trying to keep his voice calm and low but it was more panicked than that. He was angry, he was afraid, he was— "Zebra-san!"

"Don't fucking CALL me that!" His voice was loud, so loud, and Komatsu jumped as a window cracked, the glass mostly falling outside, but his eyes were wide and startled and Zebra grunted like Toriko had gotten a nail punch in at his abdomen, turning roughly away, mouth clenched shut so hard that Komatsu could see the muscles in his neck bulge.

"But you're not my partner! And you're not going to be! I need to call you _something_ , Zebra-san!"

"Then just tell me you don't fucking want me around, I know you're cocky enough to do it!" Zebra demanded, taking a long step forward and bending down until his face was unnervingly close to Komatsu's, looming up in front of him. "You're always so damn honest—tell me the fucking truth!"

"I want to date you!" Komatsu blurted out, lightning fast, before his thoughts could catch up to the wrangle of emotions running through him. He froze, eyes wide, deer in the headlights, and couldn't turn his head up to meet Zebra's expression.

Zebra made a sort of strangled choking noise, and a number of Komatsu's worst fears were confirmed when he looked up to see Zebra, staring down at him, absolutely apoplectic. Not that Komatsu was afraid, not really. No, he was, he was terrified, but not that Zebra would hurt him, but that he'd hurt Zebra, that his ill-timed stupid confession made out of—of anger and frustration and unexpected hurt and being pushed, terrified that his silly wants and needs had overridden his best instincts, because Zebra didn't need to—didn't need to deal with Komatsu and his crush—what he'd tried to convince himself was a crush, no matter how deep it ran, no matter how it sunk its roots further and further into his heart each time he shared a meal with Zebra, each time they talked, each time he saved him or helped him save himself, each time he watched with honest happiness and sometimes _pride_ when Komatsu did something for him, or for someone else, or—

No. The most important thing was Zebra. His partner was one thing; Zebra was another. He'd thought it was... enough. That they weren't like he was with Toriko, because they were Komatsu-and-Zebra together, instead.

“I apologize, Zebra-san,” Komatsu said, voice low.

“Don't,” Zebra told him, almost breathless, and Komatsu's hands didn't uncurl from their fists, but he did manage to raise his head, despite his desperate, gasping breaths—like he'd run a marathon, or tried to and lost—and shaking shoulders, the fine tremors of his tightened muscles. “Kid—Komatsu—what do you _mean_ , date me?”

He was confused, not angry—his anger had drained from his face, leaving him looking oddly young, almost lost.

“Ze—” Komatsu started, then stopped. He didn't...

“Why don't you like me calling you that?” Komatsu asked.

“Don't,” Zebra said again, but his hands were fisted in the material of his pants, tightly enough that Komatsu worried about the garment tearing—it wasn't like he was going to have anything to lend him, nothing that would even come close to fitting—and his voice sounded open and vulnerable in a way that made Komatsu's heart race, half worry and adrenaline, half a strange-stupid need to protect him (like all of them, they needed—they _needed_ someone to look out for them, not because it was necessary for their health, but because they didn't have anyone to do it, no matter how much they didn't really need it—they _should_ have someone, Komatsu thought, fiercely). Half because Zebra was always—always _attractive_ , not because of the hint of danger, like some people probably thought—more than a hint. He was _Zebra_. But he was huge with muscle, he moved like a predator, comfortable in his own skin, owning his body—scarred and striped with his checkered past, every inch of him a weapon—and because he was so _gentle_ with Komatsu, he held himself back, or, or—reined it in, and his touches could be feather-light and almost infinitely sweet, at odds with his scowl or, sometimes, matching his expression, which could clear like the sun breaking through clouds, and maybe some people—people who _didn't_ matter—wouldn't see it for what it was, under the scars and the disfigured cheek and his heavy brows—but Komatsu knew Zebra's happiness, and he'd fallen in love with that. And with the Zebra who yelled at Komatsu enough to make him nervous, to hide his own nervousness—the Zebra who challenged Komatsu to exert his untested strength, and who would do his best to defend him from anything, _anything_ , would fight to the death for him, if and when Komatsu's strength failed. Zebra, who had discovered countless new ingredients because he'd finally found something to inspire him. Zebra.

“Zebra,” Komatsu said, out loud, his mouth snapping shut before he could add the honorific, watching him closely, stepping closer. Zebra bowed his head. Then looked up, amazed, when he realized Komatsu was done.

“That's better,” he said, too relieved to sound really happy. “Komatsu—the fuck do you _mean_ , you want to date me? You've got—fuck, _fuck_ , you've got Toriko—”

“Toriko's my partner,” Komatsu said, honestly surprised, confused at first— “Zebra— _Zebra_ —did you think that me and Toriko-san were _romantic_ partners?”

Zebra's bowed head and lost eyes were more expressive than any words could be. Komatsu choked back an inappropriate, almost-hysterical laugh. Zebra probably heard it anyway, he thought.

“Toriko-san is my partner, and I don't ever want that to change,” Komatsu said, quietly—flat truth, completely honest. Zebra could hear it, he knew—he knew that Zebra _trusted_ him, when he wasn't too worked up. He hoped so, at least. He trusted Zebra. “...There's more than one type of closeness, though. Just because I don't want him _like that_ doesn't mean he's not important to me. As important as anyone could be.”

“Komatsu,” Zebra said, voice shuddering with—something. Want, need, desperate hope.

“Zebra,” Komatsu told him, right back, sure certainty gathering in the pit of his stomach. He knew what he needed to do—he knew how to direct this. Intuition, something sparked by food honor—he was nervous, but there was nothing to do but prepare the situation. The hysterical part of him laughed at that, but the rest of him was watching Zebra, head bowed, shoulders hunched defensively, a wall of bristling muscle looming in front of him—and he looked dangerous, he was far more dangerous than he looked, and Komatsu knew he would always, _always_ be safe with him.

Komatsu pulled the bread out of the oven, put aside his broth, put the shellfish back in his fridge. He washed his hands thoroughly, wiped them dry, pulled off his apron, and turned back to face Zebra, watching him intently.

“Down here,” he added, quietly, voice tiny but solid, unquestioning, and he soothed Zebra's fingers out of their death grip on his pants, light tugs to direct Zebra's jerky, nervous, angry-tense movements, and then tugged on the fabric himself. Zebra was abnormally ungraceful as he knelt, eyes wide and fixed on Komatsu, his own breath coming a little too fast.

Komatsu's heart was loud in his ears—no doubt louder to Zebra's ears—as he tugged him a little closer, his hand gripping Zebra's shirt, and then leaned in and kissed him, gently, ready to draw back, but also—it was right, he knew it was right, it was singing through his veins. Zebra's hair was amazingly soft as Komatsu slid his fingers into it, and leaned in, pulling Zebra's head towards him as he went—Zebra following his wordless directions—so their lips met in the middle for a kiss.

Zebra's lips were chapped—but to be fair, his were too, Komatsu thought—and he still hadn't moved, his hands hanging empty. Komatsu ignored that to close his eyes and _savor_ , biting gently at smooth-slick scar tissue, his own mouth hypersensitive as he mapped out the different textures, the slide of skin against skin, breath between them. It was quiet—to his ears—and he wondered what Zebra was hearing, in the street outside—the next door apartments—the other side of the crowded, noisy city.

Zebra made the softest, sweetest sound in his throat when Komatsu licked into his mouth, a low bass growl checked at the last minute, catching in his throat like a purr. His hands rose up to surround Komatsu, his arms circling him in muscle, the amazing _heat_ of him—his metabolism a furnace, Komatsu knowing it as well as, he thought, anyone normal could—so gentle, at first, that Komatsu barely felt the brush of his calloused fingertips against his bare neck, and it was so _natural_ to have his arms settle around him, pulling him closer, distracting him even more as his own hands ran over his shirted chest, the checked _strength_ of him making him sigh into the kiss, press himself even closer.

When he drew back, Zebra was wide-eyed, lips red, naked hunger on his face—Komatsu had seen it there, a hundred times, and it made his knees go weak, it made him smile to have been the one to do it, to have Zebra wanting him so _badly_ that it made him tremble when Komatsu trailed his hand over his stomach, brushing against the waist of his pants.

“Komatsu,” he said, his voice more open and vulnerable than Komatsu had ever heard it, and it almost made his throat close with tenderness, with a sudden driving desire to make him come undone, to see him breathless and wrung out and too aroused to think and _happy_ , that it choked him.

“Zebra,” he told him back, silly maybe, but also— _serious_ , because he thought Zebra needed to hear his name, because he hoped that Zebra could hear, when he said it, everything he meant, everything he meant to _do_ to him—

Zebra shifted, and Komatsu looked down to see him, still kneeling—of course, he thought distantly, otherwise it'd be hard for him to reach—and that wouldn't do. “Come on,” he said, dragging up at his arm, his hand pushing up where he'd been holding on, right at the elbow—his hand tiny against Zebra. The sheer size of him always struck him breathless.

Zebra swallowed hard, looking at Komatsu like he was lost. “I just want to fucking—” he said, then shook his head, tried again. “No, Komatsu, I want—”

“Couch,” Komatsu told him firmly, pushing at his immovable chest, determined. “It'll be more—comfortable,” he added, no doubt blushing—he _always_ blushed, he knew, maybe still shy but it didn't change—it didn't change the part of him that was going to take exactly what he wanted: Zebra arching into his grasp, Zebra breathless with overloaded pleasure when he came, Zebra panting his name as he slowly learned the exact responses of Zebra, memorized the taste of Zebra's cock—but certain. “Zebra. It won't do to have you kneel—”

Zebra moaned, and Komatsu felt his own growing erection throb with want, watching Zebra's eyes go hazy as Komatsu—yes, because he was on his knees, in front of Komatsu, and part of him wanted keep him there, wanted to watch Zebra clenching his hands to keep from stroking himself off as he knelt in front of Komatsu, the chef on his counter—it wouldn't work, otherwise, Komatsu somehow rational enough to realize that even as he went hazy-focused with lust—as Zebra slowly devoured him.

“On the couch,” Komatsu said, a flat order, and then he had to cling to Zebra as he picked him up bodily, holding Komatsu close as he stalked over to the couch—crossing the room in a few quick steps, huge in Komatsu's apartment, huge _anywhere_ , and Komatsu aching with want, needing to kiss him again—needing to suck on the column of his throat, feel with his lips and tongue the roped muscle he'd clung to, the broad back—Zebra's head thrown back, Komatsu scratching down his muscled pectorals, his shoulders—and unable to, pinned and frustrated, grinding just slightly—too much, not enough—against Zebra.

But when Zebra sat down, he could slide up his thighs, straining to straddle them, Zebra laid back underneath him, watching him with something like awe.

“Please,” he gasped, and Komatsu shuddered—he'd heard Zebra ask before, ask nicely, but never like _that_ , voice wanting so bad it verged on desperation, and he thought that maybe Zebra didn't know what he was asking for—he looked not, not lost, but searching, and Komatsu knew, he _knew_ , he wanted to try each and every one of—everything, a dozen ideas, more, but the most immediate was Zebra's mouth, so he bit his lip, not hard, just enough to make Zebra gasp, his hands tightening reflexively—maybe Komatsu's couch would break, but then he'd just—move Zebra out of the wreckage and pin him to the floor, order him to stay flat as he stroked their cocks together, skin-to-skin, watching Zebra the entire time, every flex of his throat, the way his muscles would strain as he tried to lie flat as Komatsu's nimble fingers wrapped around their cocks, velvety skin and precome and the dew of sweat where skin met skin, the slight callouses of a chef's hands—

It was strange, to kiss Zebra and have his mouth be so much bigger—he'd tried to imagine it, aching and lonely and trying to figure out how to fit Zebra into a hotel shower stall, his bed—but his lips were mobile underneath his. The scar tissue was strange, but it was Zebra and Komatsu detoured to taste it, down one side—the untorn side—of Zebra's face, kissing up to his brow, the tension there released, for once, making him hum in pleasure—a butterfly kiss over each eyelid, fragile and Zebra slack, simultaneously taut, with the tension of holding still, all contradictions and apparent inconsistencies—but that was Zebra, and he slid a huge hand up to rest against Komatsu's neck, his upper back, not controlling but grasping, grounding him, Komatsu thought. He kissed back down his face, his free hand holding his head steady, tipping it to one side—Zebra moving when he pushed, listening, always listening, to the unspoken directions of his hand—and nibbled on one of Zebra's earlobes, the curve of his jaw—needing to scramble further up the trunk of Zebra's body, really like some ancient forest tree, only warm and yielding underneath him, the swell and release of muscle as Komatsu's cock slid against his skin, hidden only by two layers of clothing, three—

Zebra moaned, hips jerking upwards, when Komatsu whispered his name in his ear.

“Zebra,” he said. “What do you want me to do?” It took concentration, _effort_ , to keep his voice anything like steady, and he knew Zebra could hear him swallow his own moan at his reaction, the needy little gasps he felt each time Zebra moved underneath him, he was really _surrounding_ him, his arms, his body, his knees spreading apart as Komatsu slowly undid him. He knew Zebra could hear his arousal, the hitches in his voice Komatsu wasn't even aware of, the exact beating of his heart, and that was almost unbearable.

“Please,” Zebra said again, shaking. “Komatsu, I want you,” he said, and then stopped, unsure where to go, and Komatsu slipped back down to palm, half-gently, Zebra's dick, through his pants. It made him arch up, but carefully, careful to not buck him off—Komatsu sliding slightly before he tightened his legs, hissing as his pants pressed against his own cock, his fingers tight at the waistband of Zebra's pants, one finger through a belt loop, holding on. Zebra's own fingers were pressing against the metal of a side-table, white-knuckled, the tips of his fingers catching on the lip, and Komatsu hummed his satisfaction.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said, just in case—voice warm, as he bent over to kiss Zebra's stomach, his lower stomach, fingers slipping over fabric and flesh, pausing to breath as he felt the minute vibrations of all that muscle, tensed and waiting and desperate for his touch, near-invisible in the dim light but felt where his face touched, his lips. His hand he ran down, his fingers nimble—despite the need making his movements jerky, the _want_ crowding his thoughts—on the button, pulling down the zipper, taking the silky flesh of Zebra's cock in his hand, running his fingers down it thoughtfully, smiling when it made Zebra moan, the sound vibrating through him.

And then the disappointed rumble when he let go and sat back up was good, too, the lurch of Zebra's muscles, the stretch of his thighs. He sat back to look: Zebra's cock revealed by his opened pants, shirt pushed up, mouth open and chest moving as he panted, eyes glinting in the low light, hair disheveled—all of him disheveled, the picture of lust, his eyes and his attention fixed on Komatsu, palpable.

Komatsu watched, smiling despite himself, until he realized that there was a wariness back in Zebra's eyes, a sort of hesitance, and—

He couldn't think Komatsu didn't _want_ him, could he?

It was easy to pull out of his shirt—or it should have been, until he moved too quickly and had to take a moment to extricate both his arms, opening his eyes to find Zebra staring at him like he wanted to memorize him—the slight muscle of his arms, honed and powerful in their own way, perfectly controlled when he needed it; his stocky, compact body, with a few small scars, kitchen accidents, accidents on his ingredient-hunting trips, the larger scar from the incident in the Gourmet Pyramid—and he smiled a little, tossed his shirt aside, and slid out of his own pants, his underwear, and then sat back again, shaking his head when one of Zebra's hands raised, desperate to touch him.

“Not yet,” he said, a warm-voiced promise, and he caught Zebra's gaze and held it as he fisted his own dick and shuddered at the sensation, made more intense by Zebra watching him, his eyes switching between Komatsu's hands, his flushed cock, and his face, making him bite down on a high-pitched sound that still escaped, sweet and needy—and of course Zebra heard it, hissing out a fervent curse at the sight, like it was a prayer, or something holy, his legs flexing under Komatsu, Komatsu adjusting for the movements with unconscious ease. Zebra swore, a low voiced curse of appreciation as Komatsu's legs tightened , teeth digging into his lip as he thrust into his loose hand, back arching.

“I love you watching me,” Komatsu said softly, enthusiasm not at all hidden by the almost voiceless whisper he used, and Zebra swore, fist thumping against the couch just carefully enough to keep it from breaking, and head falling back as he tried not to move too much. But fuck, the easy way that Komatsu was so, so accustomed to him, to who he was—it was so hard not to grab him and pull him down close, so Zebra could kiss him—could be kissed again, Komatsu somehow just as good with his mouth as he was with his hands, and suddenly that meant something completely new because Zebra knew Komatsu's hands, wrapped up in one of his own or wrapped in a competent grip around the handle of a knife. What they felt like on his cock. Now he knew.

“Now stay still,” Komatsu ordered again, and Zebra almost whined, surprising himself with the noise he managed, thin and desperately needy. And he was still, except for a quick quiver of muscle, the flex of his shoulders, his abdominals, as Komatsu ground down against him, their erections pressed together and the warm skin gliding against his aching cock was too much. He shouted, just barely keeping it down, glasses rattling in their cupboards, fingers scrabbling against fabric, arching off the couch an inch before he forced himself back, almost, too tense already.

“Komatsu,” Zebra whispered, rough-voiced, but Komatsu was already speaking.

“You're _listening_ to me, Zebra—so desperate,” Komatsu said, voice quivering, wrapping a hand around their cocks and _thrusting_ , adding his own moan when Zebra shuddered—the chef feeling it from his vantage point on top of the other man, pinning him—Zebra helpless to stop him, not even trying, let Komatsu take control. He was the one in charge. “I love making you—”

A pause, for Komatsu to gasp and shudder as Zebra thrust, fabric creaking between his fingers as he fought to control himself.

“Let me set the pace,” Komatsu told him, and Zebra moaned, brows tightening but his mouth open and gasping, not scowling.

“Faster, fuck, Komatsu—”

“I love how you watch me and how you—Zebra-san—how you let me take care of you—how you watch me, how you _listen_ to me—”

The pace of Komatsu's heartbeat was burned into Zebra's mind.

The feel of Komatsu's lightly calloused hand around his dick, his short hair ruffled and lips swollen and eyes not—not predatory but focused and knowing, _knowing_ , that Komatsu wanted him and wanted him right there, underneath him and listening for his every word.

“Zebra, _Zebra_ ,” Komatsu panted, and Zebra came with a wordless shout, fingers ripping into the fabric of the couch as he arced up, his other hand steadying Komatsu automatically as he gasped and shuddered, Komatsu's hand still and steady as he waited through Zebra's orgasm, until Zebra fell back panting, eyes fixed on Komatsu.

Komatsu looked just slightly stunned, but the expression was banished as a smile like sunlight started to break across his face. And Zebra _wanted him_ , so badly. And he had Komatsu—Komatsu had him.

It was easy to move them, easy to shoulder in-between Komatsu's legs, breath still coming a little fast, and look up into Komatsu's eyes, looking for wordless permission, so close his breath puffed against Komatsu's cock, some of his own come still on it.

“What do you want, Zebra?” Komatsu breathed, and Zebra felt another twinge of interest, coming too soon, but—but Komatsu. “Tell me.”

“Can—” his voice broke, too rough, and he tried again, dropping his eyes with unexpected shyness. “Can I taste you,” he managed, feeling too-big and inexperienced and oversensitive, vulnerable, he'd been stripped down to his component particles by the other man, by _Komatsu_ , wanting to hear that he was—he was—

“Of course,” Komatsu said, running his fingers through the red strands of his hair, taking his cock in hand to rub it against Zebra's face, against his cheek, the slide of scars and his scarred lips until Zebra stuck out his tongue flick against hot skin, then took his dick in his mouth. “Zebra, you're so good, of course you can.”

Listening to Komatsu above his head, the stutter and gasp of his breath, it was easy to slow or speed up, to repeat the exact slide of his lips that made Komatsu gasp his name like a prayer, hands fisting in his hair before relaxing. And it was Zebra who shook, too, when Komatsu came hard, halfway through his warning and shuddering with visceral pleasure as Zebra swallowed his come, memorizing the taste.

“I'm so lucky,” Komatsu told him, tugging Zebra up with a gentle hand just loosening its grip on red strands of hair, and snuggling close to Zebra's sweat-damp neck, nuzzling him with a delicate, affectionate nip that made Zebra shudder. “I'm so happy, Zebra!” and he was smiling against Zebra's scarred skin, a light weight against him, and when he looked up, he had to wipe a few tears away from his smiling face.

Komatsu was probably the only person ever to smile wider at Zebra's advancing scowl, the ripped up side of his cheek, before Zebra licked up a stray tear and tried to wiggle himself even closer, even though they were already skin-to-skin.

“But now your clothes are dirty—Zebra,” Komatsu said, squeezing his fingers at the word, possessive and pleased and _comfortable_ with his name, and maybe fussing a little. “I can start some laundry—I don't have anything that will fit you! Do you want to take a shower?”

“...yeah,” Zebra said, looking at him with something a little lost, then taking his hand to kiss it like it _meant_ something.

“...We could bathe together?” Komatsu asked him, hopefully, and Zebra nodded his assent with embarrassed but unhidden eagerness, picking Komatsu up and heading towards the bathroom—new, for Komatsu's new apartment, with a soaking tub big enough for a family, or one King. Or a King and Komatsu.

“I want to taste _you_ , this time,” Komatsu said, blushing but eager, meaning it making Zebra flush in return. “Zebra—what do you want?”

Zebra swallowed. “Komatsu,” he said, blushing, then soldiered on, voice turning into a growl. “Komatsu, make me beg,” he admitted, in a rush, thinking of Komatsu's body pinning him, Komatsu's heavy presence focused on him, and _wanting_.

“I know you'll listen,” Komatsu told him. “I trust you,” he said, and he _meant_ it. Trusted him, Zebra, most dangerous of the Four Kings—most deadly, most unpredictable. Zebra shivered.

“You, too,” Zebra said, bad at words but needing to say it, _needing_ to say it. “Komatsu—”

“I'll take care of you,” Komatsu promised.

-End-


End file.
